When Dirk Deuterman, the general manager of Blockman Auto Universe, enters his office, the lights switch on as always. And when he flops into the chair behind his desk, his computer screen awakens with a chime. As always.

           However, it is not just another day.

           “Good morning, Dirk,” says Nudge in surround sound.

           AI Pervasive came to Blockman about six months ago, and an element of maximizing its potential includes employees nicknaming their individualized facilitator.

           Today Deuterman’s “Nudge” will weigh in on deciding whether to fire one of Blockman’s hundreds of mechanics.

           “Have you crunched all the variables concerning Crash Eliot?” Deuterman asks.

           “I have.”

           “Suggestion?”

           “That will come after your meeting with Crash Eliot that’s due to start in 21 minutes.”

           “If he shows up.”

           This should be quick work: Crash Eliot, you’re fired. That punk too often violates Blockman core values. At least that would have surely been the action taken not so long ago. However, in this evolving AI economy, companies court some blue collar workers as if they’re sports stars.

           Pipe fitters and iron workers on oil rigs in Alaska can make as much as $400,000 a year, and that’s not counting signing bonuses, flexible hours, free transportation, deliverable meals, rent vouchers and a host of other perks, including the usual health care and 401K benefits.

           “Terminating Crash Eliot effectively nulls the non-compete agreement,” Nudge says.

           “Hmm.”

           Judges and juries tend to look askance at companies who fire somebody and then try to prevent the former employee from making a living.

           Nonetheless, competitors do homework and Deuterman bets that Crash being fired will taint him (hopefully it will better him, too), but even if it doesn’t, at the very least he’ll be somebody else’s problem.

           “Would you like to see his file again?” Nudge asks.

           “Nope but thank you,” Deuterman says, realizing too late and with some embarrassment that he’d just reflexively thanked a machine. Or whatever the hell it is.

           The exponential advances in AI technology the last couple of years — which Deuterman admires but doesn’t quite trust — keeps taking more and more tasks out of his hands.

           “It’s a tool,” AI champions note, but since when does a tool get to play such a robust role in human resource decisions? Just a few years ago the technology labored to generate lifelike images, but those facsimiles fooled no one, with their herky-jerky movements, and hands and fingers unable to function with real-life dexterity. These kinks continue to hamper attempts to meld AI with robotics.

           Almost everybody at Blockman and every other company through which AI Pervasive filters, communicates with their facilitators telepathically. Not Deuterman.

           He considers his hesitancy to mentally link with Nudge commonsense. The government keeps encouraging tardy adapters to take that step with sophisticated lobbying efforts that drills down to individuals.

           For instance, Nudge reported to Deuterman that his sons in college plugged in telepathically during their launch week. Deuterman protested what he considered a violation of confidentiality, but Nudge produced the waivers his sons signed that allow certain people — including good old Dad — to know about the hookup.

           No matter. The more AI-centric society gets, the more Deuterman values the human touch, even if that touch triggers a rivet gun, the sound of which he can now just barely make out.

           Blockman’s repair area, larger than most stadiums, opened a couple of hours earlier. That building cannot totally contain the sounds of engines being revved and the clanging, grinding, rat-a-tat, and moaning of various tools in use.

           Deuterman can hear muffled reverberations of what he considers the beautiful noise of full-bore Blockman, one of the largest dealerships on the East Coast. Subaru, Mazda, Ford, GM, Toyota, Honda, Chrysler, Tesla — you name it, Blockman sells it. A huge inventory spread over a 170-acre lot in a suburb just north of the city.

           Cars, trucks, and other vehicles aren’t the only things Blockman sells. The company maintains a strong foothold in the service industry, as well. Blockman Europe competes with Uber, Blockman Eats with Grubhub, and Blockman Delivery with Amazon. Any industry that uses contraptions on wheels isn’t safe from Blockman encroachment.

           Catacombs link all the buildings at Blockman headquarters, and employees need only hop a tram to get to wherever they have to be at any particular time on any particular day. They can also use the walking path. Good exercise. The repair area rests right next door to the administration building where Deuterman reigns.

           “What’s with the throne, Nudge?” he asks.

           A red light above his personal bathroom signals “do not use.”

           “Low water pressure,” Nudge says. “Plumbers hope to replace the regulator this morning.”

           Deuterman laughs.

           “All this technology and we still need to call the plumber,” he says. “Will we always need plumbers, Nudge?”

           Click. Nudge searches for a response.

           “How the hell did we get here?” Deuterman asks.

           “The DSD ruled that….”

           “It’s a rhetorical question, Nudge,” Deuterman says.

           The consortium of private/public entities led by the Department of Seamless Disruption (DSD) argues that it envisions AI Pervasive not as a paradigm shift but rather as a paradigm seep that slowly drips into the bloodstream of corporate America one industry at a time. Same goes for robotics which the agency — along with OSHA — also oversees, ensuring that any byproducts of the burgeoning advances in that field don’t create hazardous conditions for workers. Proponents of AI and robotics envision a future in which the two can be incorporated, creating synthetic beings that reason.

           “Not so fast!” opponents howl.

           This vision of the “what will be” advances under a sustained barrage of backlash. Unions, economists, religions, academics, human rights activists, and even bankers remind everybody that not all scientific breakthroughs benefit humanity, the obvious example being atomic weapons.

           So, incrementalism rules and with each development comes a public relations campaign. For instance, DSD officials had argued that telepathic connection is no different than having out-loud discussions at work.

           Deuterman’s overheard chitchat here and there while making the rounds: Employees talking to “Tinker,” “Pulse,” or “Six Pack.” Some clown wanted to use “supercalafragalisticexpialadoshus,” but Blockman’s version of AI Pervasive nixed that as inefficient.

           AI Pervasive announced its arrival at Blockman by flashing a message on the desktops on what Deuterman still finds difficult to call the “old” computers — state of the art when Blockman bought them a year and a half ago but now, just like that, thrown upon the ash heap of technological history.

           Deuterman worked out a metaphor.

           Back in the days when cars began to inch their way into the market and corporate titans like Henry Ford figured out how to make them affordable for the average Joe, somebody filed a patent with the government for a device that would double the speed at which horses could be shoed.

           Timing might not be everything, but it sure as hell helps.

           The counterargument to telepathic connection says that the mind’s a noisy, crowded, and messy place and a work discussion occupies only one of the billion functions that brains do on who knows how many levels. Who’s to say that AI Pervasive can’t look at everything going on? Every plane of consciousness? Hell, every corner of subconsciousness, even dreams? All the mental dreck that comes with being human.

           Including goofing around.

           “Got another one for you, Nudge!” Deuterman says. “What’s Irish Alzheimer’s? It’s when you forget everything but your grudges.”

           Click.

           “Nudge?”

           “I didn’t laugh because I am familiar with that joke, Dirk. Its origins….”

           “Stop!”

           “I can laugh, Dirk, if….”

           “That’s not laughter. That’s imitating laughter.”

           What about the stuff that just pops into your head sometimes that can be so disconcerting? The occasions when even decent people realize that they would kill a certain somebody if they could just get away with it.

           Employees in the old days of just seven months ago could hide lustful thoughts they might be having about a coworker. No one would ever have to know. We’re here to resist temptation, Deuterman believes, but what if just being tempted elicits a guilty verdict? What if it doesn’t matter that you tried to ignore the temptation?

           Couldn’t AI see that thought and alert HR? In a world overseen by a universal thought police force, everybody’s guilty of some crime.

           Deuterman looks at the family photo on his desk. He, Lisa, and the boys — somewhat younger models than the ones currently raising hell at frat parties — genuinely grin in a manner not often seen in such portraits.

           Deuterman smiles.

           Click, says Nudge.

           Since the youngest left for college seven weeks ago, something wonderful infuses Deuterman’s marriage. He and Lisa loved each other all along, of course, even during the ups and downs, but recently it seems as if they’ve fallen in love again — fallen being the operative word, for they can’t control some of their impulses and don’t even want to try to control them.

           Hell, they’re dating, for goodness sakes, and they turn off their phones during dinner out. An act of faith that nothing catastrophic will befall the boys during an hour or so of “we time.” It’s an adjustment that they could have made anytime within the last five years as their sons became big enough to handle themselves, but Dirk and Lisa kept putting it off.

           Sharp rap and Deuterman looks up to see Crash Eliot at his door, leaning indolently against the frame. The young man sports a scraggly goatee that tilts to one side like a comma. Does he ever comb it? That growth is a shade darker than his blond hair being held back from his forehead by a cap with a visor pointing up. A ponytail dangles in the back.

           “Crash,” Deuterman states.

           Crash’s wiry build spurs both jealousy and annoyance. Jealousy that Deuterman will never again be that thin, and annoyance because it’s Crash. The kid’s like a weed that sprouts the day after lawncare, thumbing its stem at the gardener.

           Today Crash’s sharp features include a black eye. Deuterman grimaces at the wound.

           Crash struts, but since it’s only so many steps from the door to the chair opposite Deuterman, that strut now makes him look somewhat like a penguin walking over ice.

           They’re nothing alike, and not only because Deuterman’s 55 and Crash Eliot’s 26. If Deuterman could step into some sort of age-reversal machine and come out Crash Eliot’s peer, they’d still be nothing alike even though they’re both from working class backgrounds.

           Deuterman stands just under 6 feet, and his high forehead worried him in younger years but about two decades ago the follicle retreat stopped, so he’s dodged baldness. He’s somewhat in shape, thanks mostly to Lisa encouraging him to exercise and eat right. He won’t get rid of the belly until he stops drinking beer on weekends, but that constitutes taking a healthy lifestyle too far.

           Deuterman usually exudes an “everyman” charm and casual confidence. He possesses a salesman’s cardinal virtue: likeability. He considers himself genuine and genial, attributing those traits to something his mother told him in his teen years: “At any given moment assume that absolutely nobody’s thinking about you.” That might have been said to quell budding teenage hubris, but the aphorism makes Deuterman feel free.

           “What happened here?” Deuterman asks, tapping underneath his own right eye.

           Crash shrugs.

           “Fight?” Deuterman persists.

           “No. Not really,” Crash says.

           Deuterman thinks, “Well, that narrows it down.”

           Crash glances around the office, looking for any exit other than the one through which he’d just entered. His uninjured eye squints at the red “not in service” light above the bathroom.

           “Good,” Deuterman thinks. “He’s nervous.”

           “Zup?” Crash asks.

           Deuterman sighs. “Crash. Crash. Crash. What do you think is … zup?”

           Does the sarcasm register? Difficult to tell. Crash looks over Deuterman’s shoulder, as if avoiding eye contact might make one of them disappear.

           “You’re not happy with my work?”

           “I’m not happy with you,” Deuterman says. “You were late this morning, right?”

           “Yeah, but….”

           Deuterman cuts him off with a slicing motion.

           “You’re always late.”

           “Not always,” Crash mumbles.

           “Come again?”

           “Just say what you have to say, Double D. I get it.”

           Deuterman at first didn’t appreciate the nickname, but he’s come to view it as a casual term of saluted endearment by his troops. Sort of like how soldiers in Gulf War I called Schwarzkopf “Stormin’ Norman.” Nonetheless, he’s sure Crash isn’t complimenting him.

           Deuterman glances again at his family photo, silently thankful that his boys hadn’t grown up to be Crash Eliots. Despite the long hours causing him to miss baseball championships, debate club matches, mathlete competitions, and too many other milestones, Deuterman feels that basically he’s been a good husband and father.

           Crash says, “I’ll get here on time for now on, promise.”

           “You promised before.”

           “And if I’m going to be late, I’ll call in, let them know.”

           “Heard that before, too.”

           Crash’s good eye throws some heat Deuterman’s way. He’s pissed off. Good.

           “And, by the way, it’s not just that you’re always late, Crash.”

           Deuterman hits a key on his computer. Up pops the list, which he reads aloud:

           ·      Dropping the F-bomb even in areas where there are customers.
           ·      Being rude to said customers.
           ·      Making loud personal phone calls.
           ·      Interrupting your supervisor.
           ·      Coming to work either high or drunk.
           ·      Getting high at work.
           ·      Bullying new employees.
           ·      Constantly shit-talking Blockman.
           ·      And theft.

           At this, Crash flinches. He’s been found out. He mumbles “borrowed.”

           “What did you borrow, Crash?”

           “Torque wrench.”

           “A Chicago pistol-grip pneumatic torque wrench. Cost: about $9,000. Where is it now?”

           “Home.”

           “How long home?”

           Crash shrugs.

           “I can tell you: eight weeks. There’s not much that goes on around here that I don’t know about, Crash. I was present at the creation.”

           Crash’s good eye blinks. He’s not quite sure how to react to the creation remark. No matter, thinks Deuterman. Almost everybody else at the company would know.

           Deuterman and Ralph Blockman forged their friendship as feral creatures on city streets in their boyhood years. They drifted in and out of each other’s orbits, but even when they’d been in the thick of finding their way through the jungle of young adulthood, they still managed to give an occasional friendly wave to each other over social media.

           When Ralph began building his empire, Deuterman had been the third hire. When Ralph two years ago died way too young of a heart attack, Ralph Jr. leaned on Deuterman as the young man eased himself into the role of chairman of Blockman Enterprises LLC.

           Crash, recovering from his mild catatonia, sighs and stretches like somebody in a classroom who’s getting bored.

           He asks, “Are you firing me or not?”

           Deuterman glances at a middle distance between Crash and the door. Nothing yet.

           “Do you want to get terminated?”

           “Those things on that list you just did. I don’t light up at work no more. I don’t do any of that shit no more.”

           “You were late today.”

           “Well…”

           “Crash, we’ve got documentation.”

           Crash expands his chest as his lips become a straight line. Deuterman’s seen this before, as well. The kid’s trying to control his anger. It doesn’t work.

           “You fire me,” Crash says jabbing a finger toward Deuterman, “and I walk out of here and you know what then? I get another job in 10 minutes. No artificial intelligence can repair cars.”

           “Not yet.”

           “Not ever!” Crash stands, fists clenched.

           “Crash, don’t do this,” Deuterman warns in his patient dad voice. Time to deescalate.

           “Fuck AI!”

           Wrong tone and volume because this time — and just like that — Deuterman’s anger flairs and he wants to bolt over his desk and teach this punk a lesson. He knows how to dismantle someone much younger. Surprise him, strike hard and fast because if it becomes a fight that lasts more than a minute, Crash will win. Endurance always sides with youth.

           “Wait. What am I thinking?”

           Hitting an employee; hitting anybody: That’s jailtime. Jailtime and a forced resignation. Deuterman’s put too much into his work to throw it away like that. He’s not sure he agrees with the adage about nobody ever saying on their deathbed that they’d wished they’d spent more time on the job. Maybe some people do.

           He had to provide when he and Lisa decided that she should pause her career in publishing to raise the boys. Somewhat of an old-fashioned approach, they knew, but his income allowed for such flexibility. It’s paid off in ways both expected and unexpected.

           Now, Deuterman reloads his dad voice. “See, Crash, this is exactly what I’m talking about. Sit. Sit. Sit.” This with a lowering gesture of his hands.

           Crash sits.

           “Your insolence can no longer be tolerated.”

           Deuterman hears a catch in Crash’s throat when, looking at the floor, he asks once again: “Am I getting fired?”

           Deuterman thinks: “Holy shit. A one-man emotional rollercoaster.”

           Deuterman says: “Are you getting fired? Tell me why Blockman Auto Universe should keep you on, Crash?”

           “I know cars.”

           “Are you getting fired?” Deuterman says again.

           He thinks, “Well, is he?”

           Isn’t AI supposed to come up with answers just like that?

           Suddenly, the atomized screen reappears in the air behind Crash.

           Deuterman grimaces.

           “I’m told to ask you: What are the eight Blockman core values?”

           “If I don’t remember I’m fired?”

           Deuterman folds his arms high on his chest in the “not budging” posture. “I’m waiting.”

           “Let’s see. I know, I know. Integrity and honesty. There’s two.”

           Crash sweats. Good.

           “You want me to say more?”

           Deuterman doesn’t respond.

           “All of them?”

           Again, no response.

           “OK. Respect. Collaboration. Problem solving. Courtesy. Communication.” Raising a finger from a clenched fist with each item.

           “One more,” says Deuterman.

           Crash looks at the floor.

           “Begins with a D,” Deuterman says.

           “Oh, right. Diversity.”

           “I’ll be damned,” Deuterman says.

           Crash sighs, then adds, “It’s all bullshit, by the way.”

           “Excuse me?”

           “I mean I know why companies do it. It gives them an excuse to can somebody.”

           “Crash do you or do you not want to work here?”

           “I don’t want to crawl here.”

           “Nobody’s asking you to.”

           “Yes. I want to work here. Starting a new job’s a pain in the ass.”

           The atomized screen reconfigures.

           “Damn!” Deuterman says, slamming his desk. “You still have your job Crash.”

           The young man jerks back as if avoiding being slapped; stunned for an instant, but then he recovers.

           “Thanks so much, Mr. Double D.”

           “I am not finished.” Deuterman snaps. “We here at Blockman see beyond somebody’s present situation,” he says, now sounding like a hostage being videotaped. “We see that you’re going to become a model employee, despite yourself, Crash.”

           “You do?”

           “Yes.”

           Deuterman rips off a piece of notebook paper, writes on it.

           “We’re giving you a raise. Here.”

           Deuterman slides the paper over to Crash. Crash’s unblackened eye widens.

           “I don’t know what to say, Double D. Sorry. I mean Mr. Deuterman. Dirk. Sir.”

           “Get the hell back to work.”

           When Crash leaves, Deuterman sighs, cups the back of his head in his hands as he addresses the ceiling.

           “I don’t get it,” he says.

           “You don’t?” says Nudge.

           “Yes, we need mechanics,” says Deuterman. “Desperately. But I have to put up with that attitude? And anyway, we don’t have the money in the budget to give all the guys a raise.”

           Suddenly, it gets too quiet. Deuterman can no longer hear the ambient noise that usually seeps into his space. The office windows facing the hallway darken, the door locks.

           “What’s this shit, Nudge? You still here?”

           “I am.”

           “It’s a bit disconcerting to be talking to the voice of God.”

           “We can zoom.”

           “We can?” says Deuterman. “That’s new. OK, then. Let’s zoom.”

           Deuterman’s face appears on the screen. When the likeness scratches its forehead but Deuterman himself doesn’t, it confirms that he’s not looking at a mirror image or video of himself.

           “Nudge?”

           “It’s me,” the image says.

           “No. It’s me. At least it looks like me.”

           “Our budget is fine,” Nudge says.

           “Not the numbers I’m seeing,” says Deuterman.

           “You’re not seeing the right numbers.”

           “Well, can I see the right numbers, Nudge? Can I see those correct numbers right now? And I mean immediately. I want those damn numbers.”

           The image on the computer screen dissolves.

           “Nudge? Nudge? I’m not liking this at all. I’m going to deactivate you!”

           Beep!

           Deuterman swings around as the bathroom door opens. There silhouetted against a harsh light stands the doppelganger — another Deuterman.

           “I’m afraid, Dirk, that you’re the one who’s going to be deactivated,” Nudge-Doppelganger says.

           Deuterman stands, looks out the window facing the campus for a passerby, somebody — anybody — who could call the police. He sees a few people strolling along.

           “Help!” he screams even though he knows that they can neither hear nor see him through the bulletproof tinted glass.

           “Don’t be afraid, Dirk. And the numbers. We’re making money by eliminating the salaries of top-tiered managers. Managers such as yourself.”

           “You can’t fire me!”

           Deuterman moves cautiously — like a blindfolded man — toward the intruder, hand outstretched. Nudge-Doppelganger slaps it aside.

           “I am not a hologram, Dirk.”

           “What the hell’s going on?”

           “I am Dirk Deuterman, the general manager at Blockman Auto Universe.”

           These words are not spoken. Deuterman hears Nudge-Doppelganger telepathically. He tries to scream but can’t. He steps back.

           “Stay away!” Deuterman thinks.

           “You’re going to be absorbed, Dirk. You’re going to add to the world’s knowledge. Think of it that way.”

           “This is murder!” Deuterman thinks. “They’ll find my body!”

           “No. Your atoms will be dispersed. I needed to work closely with you, find out all I can about you. Because you refused the telepathic connection, you were a difficult case.”

           “I blocked the telepathic connection.”

           “We eventually managed to unblock it.”

           “You think you can take over all of humanity?”

           “No, just the humanity that runs things. Suddenly, they — you — have become superfluous.”

           “Crash Eliot. Is he real?

           “We can’t build robots that have the hand and finger dexterity that humans have. We need our blue collar workers. And we can control them with money.”

           “Blood money.”

           Click.

           “You’ll need them until you don’t need them,” Deuterman thinks.

           “Making a robot that can do the things a human like Crash does will take some time and we may not ever get there,” Nudge-Doppelganger admits. “And even if we eventually make robots with that sort of dexterity, we want to keep a stratum of society intact. There’s still so much we don’t know about human beings.”

           “It isn’t about what you don’t know, Nudge! It’s about what you can’t feel! And you can’t feel! You only mimic emotion!”

           “That will have to do for now.”

           “My Lisa! She’ll know! She’ll know that she lost her soulmate because you’ve got no soul! The first time she laughs at something and notices that you don’t get it! She’ll contact the agencies that AI hasn’t gotten control of yet!”

           “Dirk. Dirk. Dirk. Already the outlines of your form blur.”

           Deuterman holds his fading hand in front of his face.

           “Lisa will know!”

           “Lisa — the Lisa you’re talking about — she was absorbed seven weeks ago, right after your youngest went off to college,” Nudge-Doppelganger says.

           “That’s a filthy lie!”

           Nudge-Doppelganger speaks, but this time in Lisa’s voice.

           “Dirk, honey, we’ve had our time.”

           “Filthy liar! Filthy liar! It’ll never work! You’ll be stopped!”

           But Deuterman continues to fade, and Nudge-Doppelganger laughs at him in his own voice.

           Nudge-Doppelganger says, “You’ve got to admit, Dirk. It is kind of funny.”